Loyalty
by rosetyler39
Summary: John saves Sherlock's life; and gets severely injured in the process. NOT a death-fic. Rated T for a little bit of strong language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello sweeties! I have been writing _a lot _of Doctor Who fanfiction lately. And I recently finished Sherlock, so... the rest of the story is pretty much self-explanatory. Anyway, hope you like. :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters.**

John was continuously amazed by Sherlock Holmes. Especially by how fast the man could run. But despite the detective's awe-inspiring tendencies, John found himself annoyed by him more often than not. Even now, he was gritting his teeth as he ran after the Consulting Detective, struggling to keep up with him. A part of him understood Sherlock's reasoning for leaving him in the dust; they _were_ chasing after a notorious serial killer through the streets of London. Despite the fact, he couldn't help but swear under his breath. Having been focused on his thoughts, John hadn't realized that he had lost sight of Sherlock. He slowed down to a jogging pace.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, his voice reverberating off of the walls in the alleyway.

He heard a crashing sound not too far off, as if someone were involved in a struggle. He dashed around the corner, leading into another alleyway. His eyes locked on two struggling forms; the killer was strangling Sherlock! Quickly, John whipped out the gun hidden away in his jacket and pointed it at the killer.

"Get off of him!" he shouted at the man. "I have a gun!"

The killer looked up, immediately taking his hands away from Sherlock's neck. John cringed when he heard his friend gasping for air, but he didn't take his gaze away from the killer.

"Look, I don't want to use this gun."

At this, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, catching John's eye.

"Okay, who am I kidding; I want to shoot you in between the eyes. You tried to kill my friend." John cocked the gun. "But you know what, I won't pull the trigger if you come with us without a struggle."

The killer started laughing.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen! I ain't gonna come with ya, and you ain't gonna shoot me. That gun is probably loaded with blanks! Come on Doc, pull the trigger! Let's test my luck!"

John did exactly that. But instead of the usual blast that one would usually hear from a gun, there was an empty sounding click. Sherlock let out a breath he'd been holding. Blanks. Damn. The killer smirked at John.

"I ain't stupid. I knew that gun was loaded with blanks. Luckily for me, I carry around ammo. Toss me the gun, will you mate?" John tossed the gun at the man, calmly. Sherlock figured he had a plan. "Well Doc, looks like I've got the upper hand," the killer said as he loaded the gun with actual bullets and cocked the gun.

John smirked.

"Maybe you are stupid. I'm not exactly unarmed."

Before the killer had time to even look remotely confused, John had already thrown the first punch, sending the man to the ground.

"You dick!" the killer screamed.

He struggled to get to his feet, but John already pinned him down with one foot. He straddled the man and started sending his fists into his face. As soon as the man stopped moving, John calmed down and eased himself to his feet, wiping specks of spit from his lip. He bent down to pick up the gun the man had dropped and stuck it back inside.

"And now I have a loaded gun." He ran over to Sherlock who was still coughing. "You alright?" he asked as he helped Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock nodded.

"That, er, that thing that you did… that was, er… good job."

John rolled his eyes.

"If that's the closest thing I'm gonna get to a 'thank you', then, you're welcome."

The two started laughing.

"I suppose I ought to text Lestrade," Sherlock said as he whipped out his phone.

John twiddled his thumbs nervously as Sherlock stared down at his phone, texting. Suddenly, he noticed movement coming from behind Sherlock. The killer was holding a sharp knife, aimed right at Sherlock's back. John only had a millisecond to think. It was either push Sherlock out of the way and take the knife or… well the other option was simply out of the question. John quickly shoved Sherlock to the side, immediately feeling something cold and sharp penetrate right beneath his chest, making him gasp. He fumbled around in his jacket for the now fully loaded gun, shakily aiming it at the fleeing man's spine- and he pulled the trigger, causing the man to face-plant when he hit the ground. It was only then that John felt it was okay to let the black spots take over his vision.


	2. Chapter 2

It all happened so quickly. One minute, he was trying to text Lestrade, and the next minute he was pushed to the ground. The detective had to take a moment to regain his bearings. Then he heard a gasp, soon followed by a loud gunshot. When he looked up, he took a moment to process the whole scene.

_Killer: James Taylor; face-down on the asphault; gunshot wound in his back, right at base of spine. Deduction: Paralyzed, if not killed by excessive bleeding. Obviously done by an experienced gunman. John had the gun. John was a soldier. Deduction: John shot the killer. John is stumbling a little. Deduction: Recoil was strong enough to knock him back a couple of fee- Knife lodged in John?! He pushed me… Deduction: John… took a knife for me? Shit! John's collapsing!_

Quickly, Sherlock got on his feet and ran over to John, catching the near unconscious doctor in his arms. He gently laid John down on the ground.

"John? John?! John!" Sherlock yelled as he shook John's shoulders.

John's eyes shot open when Sherlock jostled him, and he groaned.

"Sh… Sherl… Sherlock?" John said weakly.

Sherlock had his hand on John's cheek.

"I'm here, John, I'm here."

He took a short minute to assess John's wound.

_Knife is lodged deep beneath left pectoral, obviously penetrating liver. Inevitable excessive bleeding. Apply pressure. DO NOT remove the knife._

Quickly, Sherlock took his scarf from his neck and started applying pressure (to the best of his ability) to John's wound. He wrapped the scarf around the knife and pressed down on it, causing John to yell.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, taking the pressure off.

John pushed Sherlock's hands back down on his chest.

"Y-you have to keep p-pressure on it, Sherlock. Don't be afraid t-to hurt me."

"John, what else do I do?" Sherlock asked in a panic.

John gulped.

"Ambulance. Now. I'm already entering stage 2 of hypovolemic shock…"

Quickly, Sherlock whipped out his phone and dialed Lestrade.

'_Sherlock? What the hell, where have you been? Any leads on the case?'_

"Lestrade! I need an ambulance, now! We got Taylor, but he stabbed John!"

'_What?! My God! Where are you?!'_

"The alleyway right across from Jameson's!"

'_Keep calm Sherlock! I'm dispatching an ambulance!'_

Sherlock then heard the sound of Lestrade hanging up. He put his phone back in his pocket.

"You're going to be _just fine_ John. I promise."

John's eyes were wide, his breathing rapid.

"John, calm down!" Sherlock said sternly. "Hyperventilating isn't going to help anything!"

There were visible beads of sweat dotting John's pale forehead.

"Sherlock, it hurts," John said, wheezing.

The detective tried not to let his emotions surface.

"I know John, I'm sorry. It's all going to be okay. The ambulance and Lestrade are on their way. You just have to stay awake."

John swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

"Sherlock… I… I can't… I'm sorry… I'm so tired…"

"John," Sherlock said, extremely stern.

"This might sound cliché, but… if I don't make it… tell Mary… oh Christ, she already knows." His eyes drooped. "And Sherlock… thanks. For everything…"

And John let his eyes slide closed.

"Damnit, John!" Sherlock yelled.

He fumbled around for a pulse, and was relieved to find one, though it was faint.

"Hang in there John!" He applied even more pressure, hoping to wake up John with the pain. No luck.

Not too far off in the distance, Sherlock heard the sounds of sirens.

_Thank God!_

He recognized Lestrade's car speeding around the corner. The DI immediately hopped out of the car and rushed over to Sherlock and John.

"Jesus Christ! Over here!" he yelled at the paramedics, who were quickly positioned next to the injured doctor.

"Sherlock, you need to step away and give the paramedics room!" Lestrade said, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Reluctantly, Sherlock took his hands away from his friend's chest. As soon as John was loaded onto a stretcher, Sherlock was by his side again.

"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to stand aside," one of the paramedics said to him, holding him back with one hand.

_Older-looking woman. Wrinkles around eyes and forehead. No ring, but indent on finger shows evidence that there used to be one there. Divorced… Dammit stop deducing! Now's not the time!_

"He's my friend. You need to let me into that ambulance with him!"

The paramedic sighed.

"Fine. Just try to give us some room to work."

Soon, all of them were loaded in the back of the ambulance. Sherlock was positioned right next to John, holding his hand. Just then, John came to.

"Sherl… where…? Is Lestrade here? Where's Taylor?"

Sherlock shushed John.

Lestrade's driving to the hospital. He called a second ambulance for Taylor. Everything's okay. You're going to be okay."

"Sir, we're going to need to put him under," the same paramedic told Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled at John.

"I'll see you soon John."

As soon as John's eyes closed again, the ambulance drove off to St. Bart's.


	3. Chapter 3

**Finally, after weeks of craziness, I am able to post another chapter! I am so, so sorry for the long wait. Hopefully you like this chapter. I am crossing my fingers.  
**

Keeping one hand holding John's, Sherlock whipped out his cell phone with the other and pulled up Mary's number.

_John's been hurt. On our way to St. Bart's.–SH_

It didn't take long for Mary to text back.

_My God! What happened?! –MW_

_Will explain once we're both at the hospital. –SH_

_On my way. –MW_

The ambulance came to a screeching stop, and the doors flew open, allowing the paramedics to lift John out. At this point, they had already removed the knife from his chest, and were running to the ER, Sherlock close behind them. Before Sherlock could follow them into the ER, a nurse stopped him in his tracks.

"Please sir, you're going to have to wait outside. Please have a seat."

Sherlock tried to argue, but the nurse practically shoved him into the waiting room before he could. The detective tirelessly paced back and forth across the room, trying to wrap his head around what just happened.

_I'll see you soon John._

How he hoped that was true.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" he heard a voice yell at him.

A worried-looking Mary Watson appeared in the waiting room.

"Sherlock, what happened?! Is John going to be okay?!" she asked frantically, now only inches away from the man.

Sherlock's thoughts were jumbled around. All of his sentences came out choppy and incoherent.

"Killer. Threw knife. John. All my fault."

He and Mary sat down next to each other, Mary clutching on to his arm; and he let her. Well 'let' isn't the proper term here. Sherlock was hardly even aware that Mary was in the room with him, let alone clutching onto his Belstaff. He was too deep in thought.

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and twiddled his thumbs, trying his best to stay calm. John had been injured before on these cases. Typically battered and bruised. And most recently… well, burned. But now… this was a different matter. Sherlock's hands were covered in John's blood. John's life source. And it was all his fault.

_Is this how he felt when he thought I was dead?_

"I don't like feeling this way!" Sherlock must have said out loud, because Mary's grip tightened on his arm.

"You think you're the only one?" She tried to stifle a laugh, but it ended up a mournful groan.

Just then, Lestrade came running into the waiting room.

"How's John?" he asked, trying to catch his breath.

"ER. Don't know," Sherlock mumbled.

Lestrade frowned, but he figured he should leave Sherlock to brood. He took a seat next to him, patting him on the shoulder.

"He'll be okay Sherlock."

But the DI's words were only white noise to the distraught detective.

_Oh God, John. It's my fault he's in here! All my fault…_

The three of them waited for what seemed like eons in that waiting room. That hellish waiting room that always reeked of vomit. Sherlock hated that damned waiting room; even more-so than he did before, now that he was waiting for John. Sherlock had his head in his hands, clinging onto his black ringlets, desperately trying to block out that horrible memory of John bleeding to death in the alleyway. But it just kept replaying and replaying and…

"Are you friends of Mr. John Watson?"

A doctor was staring down at Lestrade, Mary and Sherlock, compelling the three of them to stand up.

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock corrected through gritted teeth.

The man sighed.

"I apologize. Dr. Watson."

"Yes, how is he?" Mary asked.

"John had some pretty bad damage to his liver and suffered some major blood loss. Thankfully we were able to get him stabilized. He's in the ICU right now."

"Can we see him?" Sherlock asked, urgently.

The doctor kept a stoic expression.

"Only family is allowed in the ICU, I'm afraid."

Mary spoke up.

"I'm his wife, Mary Watson. And this man," she gestured to Sherlock, "Is his… ah… brother… Harry Watson."

Sherlock looked over at her with a content expression. The doctor nodded.

"Very well. But I'm afraid you will have to wait sir," he said, looking at Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded.

"I understand."

The DI looked over at Sherlock.

"I have to go, Sherlock. Text me with any updates, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, having hardly heard what Lestrade had been saying. All he cared about was John.

The doctor turned to Sherlock and Mary.

"Follow me please."

Sherlock had to keep himself from sprinting ahead and through the ICU. But, soon enough, the doctor opened the doors, and he broke into a run. There were multitudes of rooms, none of which, upon a simple glimpse through the window, contained John Watson. When Sherlock reached the end of the hall, he turned to his right, and saw him through the small, rectangular window; the sandy-haired doctor, looking unnaturally pale.

"John," he said, barely even audible to himself, as he threw open the door.

John lay on the hospital bed, his body void of any activity. He was dressed in a small hospital gown, made lumpy by the bandage that was inevitably wrapped around his chest. Machines were beeping, tracking his heart rate and his breathing. He looked so vulnerable. Sherlock ran over to him, kneeling next to the bed, his hand slipping into John's limp one.

"My God, John," he said in a whisper.

Just then, Mary came bounding over to the bed.

"Oh John," she said, clasping a hand over her mouth, trying her best not to cry.

Sherlock stared at John in disbelief.

_This shouldn't have happened._

Sherlock gripped John's hand tightly, his knuckles turning white.

_Come on, John! _

He never imagined John could be this pale, this silent, this… still. That's what scared Sherlock the most, was how still he was.

_Why did he push me out of the way? I should be the one in that bed, not John! John doesn't deserve this!_

Suddenly, he found himself enveloped in Mary's tight embrace.

"He'll be okay, Sherlock. I just know it. John is strong. Let's not cry."

Apparently, he had been crying. He hadn't really noticed.

Mary and Sherlock sat on either side of John's bed, letting the hours go by without any awareness of their passing. Mary soon lost the battle with exhaustion when the clock read 2:45 A.M., and she was soon asleep on the chair next to the bed, her hand loosely gripping John's. Sherlock, however, could not sleep. Well, he was used to not sleeping. He didn't care to grab a stool, though his knees were sore from the hard floor.

"Dammit, John. Why are you such an idiot?" Sherlock said, almost anticipating an answer.

_Of course he won't answer you. He's unconscious._

"Dammit John, don't do this. Don't die for me! I have hardly done the same…"

Sherlock lifted John's hand up to his forehead, feeling how cool it felt. He couldn't hold it back anymore. He just started crying.

_All my fault._

"Please be okay, John. Don't leave me here alone. Everyone else is so boring."

_All my fault._

"Please be okay."


	4. Chapter 4

John squinted as he opened his eyes. It was so bloody bright. Where the hell was he? He soon found out as he tried to sit up, as a searing pain shot right through his chest. He hissed in pain, remembering the recent knife wound he had received. Hospital. Of course. As he settled back down onto his pillow, his head lolled to the side, revealing to him his beloved wife, Mary Watson, sleeping in a chair, her hand holding his. God he loved her. He figured he ought to tell her that again when she woke up. Feeling he needed more sleep, his head rolled to the other side. But what he didn't expect to see was a mess of black curls splayed out on the bed. He smiled. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was holding his hand. He knew at this point that sleep was pointless, and he should let Sherlock and Mary know of his return to the land of the living.

"Morning," he said to the detective.

Sherlock looked up, startled, obviously still dazed from sleep. But his face immediately lit up when he saw John, alive and well.

"John!" Sherlock said, ecstatic. "John, you're awake!"

At this, Mary's eyes flew open. It only took her a brief moment to realize that John Watson was indeed awake. Quickly, she wrapped her arms around John's neck, causing him to groan.

"Chest… hurts…" he said, taking in sharp breaths.

Mary eased her grip.

"Sorry," she said, genuinely concerned.

Gently, she pecked John on the forehead, letting a tear roll down her cheek.

"I thought… oh God… when Sherlock texted me I… well… I didn't know what to do! I came over as quickly as I could and I just… John, I thought you were dead!"

John managed a weak laugh.

"Well I'm not."

Again, Mary hugged him tightly, but this time, not so tight as to hurt him.

"I love you," she whispered tenderly. "So, very much."

John draped a half-limp arm around her.

"I love you too."

Sherlock sat by the bed, his eyes so filled with relief. Mary spoke again.

"I'll go notify the doctor!"

And she strode out of the ICU. Sherlock immediately hugged John, as Mary had done earlier. John was baffled for a moment, confused at this strange behavior. But he enjoyed the long embrace he was held in.

"How long was I out?" he asked once Sherlock released him.

"Three days John."

John's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Three days?"

Sherlock nodded.

"John I… we… we thought you weren't going to wake up."

Then, Sherlock's relief turned into fury.

"Why in the _hell _did you do that?!" he yelled.

John raised an eyebrow.

"What? Save your neck?"

Sherlock fiery glare was enough of a response.

"I didn't want to see you hurt," John responded, with a certain tenderness.

But tenderness didn't register with the consulting detective.

"Well, you should have thought about how _I _would have been affected, John, before almost killing yourself!"

John suddenly became frustrated. Obviously Sherlock had forgotten about the fall. The fall which had caused him so much pain.

"I could say the same thing to you," the good doctor said, bitterly.

Sherlock looked down at the floor, realizing his careless choice of words.

"Right."

John huffed.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, almost in a whisper.

John shrugged.

"S'fine, I guess."

Sherlock subtly smiled.

"I suppose you've properly gotten your revenge with that little stunt?"

John's lips were tightened so they looked like a thin, straight line.

"I suppose so."

Sherlock sighed.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I was thoroughly concerned for your well-being. And, well…" he scratched the back of his head. "…I cried."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You what?"

Sherlock chuckled.

"Stupid human emotions," he said, sitting himself down in the chair which Mary had abandoned.

The corners of John's mouth twisted into a smile.

"You… cried?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I suppose this is amusing to you."

John's jaw dropped slightly as he smiled even wider.

"You _cried_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, shut up."

"Maybe you aren't such a psychopath."

Sherlock growled.

"I am a high-functioning sociopath, thank you very much."

Sherlock's feigned anger quickly turned into laughter, and John giggled simultaneously, before coughing a bit.

"You alright John?" Sherlock asked, recovering from his fit of laughter.

John nodded, through a lingering giggle.

"Yeah… heeheehee… just fine."

The two sighed, letting their diaphragms relax.

"Sherlock," John asked.

"Hm?"

"You cried. For me."

Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, John. We've established that."

John frowned a bit.

"I just… why? That's… I mean… it's out of character…"

Sherlock caressed John's cheek, running his thumb gently up and down it.

"You're worth the tears, John."

John chuckled.

"Don't lie."

Sherlock gripped John's hand with his free one.

"I'm not John."

He smiled.

"I'd be lost without my blogger."


End file.
